


Unconventional Sex Ed

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cockblocking, Dad Yondu, Hand Jobs, Kid Peter, M/M, Sexual Humor, Unconventional Sex-Ed, the kid walked in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10834287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: As a Ravager captain raising a young ward, Yondu's suffered a lot. Having his trinkets smashed by sulky eleven-year-olds. Interrupted sleep. Accusations of softness.But worst of all? The goddamncockblocking.





	Unconventional Sex Ed

**Author's Note:**

> **A bit of generic-ish Kragdu + cockblocking!Peter, to welcome all my new friends to the fandom. Enjoy!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning: Spoilers for GOTG 2 within.**

There is no sound in this galaxy, this universe, this entire conceptual realm, which can cull arousal faster than the faint but persistent chant of _ooga chaka._ At least, so thinks Yondu. Kraglin ain't convinced.

Yondu waits ten seconds just to be sure. Then, when it becomes clear that the saw of a well-slicked cock into and out of his ass doesn't plan on ceasing, he thumps Kraglin on one scrawny tattooed shoulder, gathers a greasy handful of hair, and _yanks._

Kraglin's jaws unlock with a spitty gasp. He pulls away from the muscle he'd been tenderizing – not _chewing,_ not really, just gathering a mouthful of skin between his fangs and grunting rhythmically around it. His aggrieved expression assaults Yondu at close range: mouth wet, tongue drooping, flushed and ugly and stubblier than a hedgehog.

“B-boss?”

His hips don't stop moving, although their measured, deep plunge becomes shallower and shallower. Kraglin pulls back until only his head is trapped inside him. Yondu plasters a hand over his mouth. He jerks his spare thumb at the door, abdomen quivering at the pressure, the stretch of Kraglin's bulb, the gape of his well-fucked ass beyond.

“I can't stop this _feeeeeeeling!_ Deep inside of _meeeeee..._ ”

What did Yondu do wrong in a past life? What has he done wrong in _this_ life? Other than murdering countless lawkeepers, smuggling guns and contraband and the occasional poached lower life form through the Nova stockades, delivering Ego's children to their death, and not marinading a certain idiot Terran when he had the chance?

“Girl you just don't _realiiiiiize,_ what you _do-to-meeeeee..._ ”

Well, Yondu's had enough. This time, Quill's overstepped. He can interrupt client calls, raids – heck, even the occasional mutiny. But Yondu's lenience stops short of letting the kid cockblock him.

It's a rare hour nowadays when both he and Obfonteri are awake, uninjured, not running around after their gaggle of murderous red-leather-clad ducklings, and in the mood to fuck. Yondu had been planning on making the most of it.

And he still does. Because maybe, just maybe, if he and Kraglin stay _really quiet,_ Quill will walk on by?

It's a good plan. One that's made significantly harder by Kraglin's trembles. The boy vibrates in place, grinding his tip over Yondu's hole - which is all kinds of nice, but not what Yondu needs right now.

He's been well-prepped, not that it's necessary given how often they do this. Kraglin's wriggles rub that little opening in all the right ways, never sinking more than an inch into soft slick blue.

Yondu takes his hand off Kraglin's mouth so he can clap it over his own.

“Mmf-captain,” his mate breathes. He's looking at him again. He always _looks at him_ when they're like this: intense and playful, yet oddly severe, as if he wants to make Yondu _understand_ something, as if he's trying to make a _connection..._

Yondu ain't got the first clue what that _connection_ might be. But he knows Kraglin's locked gaze makes him shudder deep inside, innards clamping wetly, legs falling wider in silent demand.

Obfonteri, ever the dutiful mate, obeys.

The quiet squelches pick up tempo. Kraglin drives in deep but slow, hilting so his plumped-up knot kisses between Yondu's asscheeks. The globes are tacky, smeared with lube and spit. Yondu, wrapping Kraglin's twiggy collection of limbs in his own, winds fingers through his first mate's hair, lets his head drop back and his mouth drop open, and _feels it._

Until, inevitably: “When you hold meeeee, in your arms so... Hey, cap'n?”

Whatever karma's getting him back for, the punishment far outweighs the crime.

Yondu's eyes pop open. He slaps Kraglin's chest, bordering on frantic, all too aware that Peter is biocoded for access. There's few things in this galaxy Yondu baulks at, but giving a baby Terran practical sex ed classes is one of them.

“Out! Outta me, now!”

That's a lot of mixed signals for Obfonteri to process, especially so far through a fuck. But to his credit, his hips only swing through three more hungry thrusts – the amount of time it takes Yondu's words, his expression, and the warning scratch of his nails over Kraglin's ribs to percolate.

Then the effects are immediate. Kraglin's shoulders slump. He slips from Yondu with a low and crackling whine, like a scolded pup. He buries his face in the side of Yondu's neck, and Yondu rubs his mohawk soothingly, even as he hauls a sour-smelling blanket over them, stretching out flat so at least if the kid barges in he won't get an eyeful.

For whatever reason, Kraglin decides this means he's allowed to start molesting his captain again – albeit very, very gently.

He's all shaky breaths; all trailing, trembling fingers that pinch Yondu's nipples and stroke the seam of his pouch, before walking up to tip his head further to the side, giving Kraglin access to nip and suck...

Even more confusingly, Yondu doesn't stop him.

His fangs dig in. They're small but wickedly sharp, and Yondu feels every point as Kraglin mouths the hickies he so generously permitted before they started ripping into each other's clothes. 

“B-boss...”

And hell, Yondu can still feel him: hot and tapered, pulsing where he rests on the inseam of Yondu's thigh.

“Kid,” Yondu tries to say. Then, more emphatically: “Peter!”

A pause. Then, from outside - “Yeah?”

Yondu gathers his words. Waits until he's sure they're gonna come out in Xandarian rather than untranslatable clicks, then spits them in the door's general direction.

“Fuck off, would ya? Tryna... tryna have a... a flarkin' _strategy meeting_ here.”

Kraglin's legs are bonier than his – hairier too. Yondu winces and rearranges, hoisting his XO by the hips long enough for him to tuck up beneath. A flap of the blanket droops over Kraglin, giving him a semblance of dignity. His cock prongs an extra fold into it, striping it dark with pre-cum.

He's being very, very good. Perfectly still - bar that persistent vibration - and perfectly silent.

His body winds tight as the ripcords in the M-ship engines, which are the last resort after all attempts at prodding, poking, and swearing the thruster controls into submission have failed. Reaching over the blanket, Yondu gives him a tug in reward.

He can feel his heat, his hardness, muffled  by the fabric. When Kraglin bends over him, spine elongating like a snake, and pants quiet “cap'n”s against his neck, he feels the lave of breath over each of his hickeys too.

And the eager squirm of fingers against his hole. _D_ _ayum,_ if that ain't nice...

...Oh yeah. There's a reason he made him stop in the first place.

Yondu forces himself to focus – or at least, to focus on other things besides the thrusts of Kraglin's hand. He has a Terran to fend off. One he stupidly gave whole-cycle access to his room, because you never know what hour Taserface might choose to make good on his threats to roast the brat. One who is barely cresting eleven, and, in Yondu's opinion, is entirely too young to know about this sort of thing.

On cue, Peter speaks up again.

“Well, it can't be _that_ important. Taserface and Horuz and Half-nut and the others're all on Bridge. I know because they was saying I had to run or they'd make me into casserole. But they also told me not to tell you that they were gonna hunt for that bottle of Kal... Kal... Kalza-whatsit-whiskey they think you hide in your chair, or they'd bake me in a pie. So this ain't me telling you. This is me telling you that they told me _not_ to tell you, yeah? Don't let them put me in a pie, Yondu. Unless it's an apple one. I like apple pies.”

That's pretty average for a conversation with the brat. He bounces from topic to topic like Kymellians leap over horse-jumps when they think no one's looking.

Yondu sighs. He sifts through Peter's speech, weeding out stuff deemed _nonsensical, unimportant,_ or _some sod's given the kid sugar again._ And, breathing heavily through his nose to convince his voice that it doesn't want to wobble, he selects Peter's most glaring oversight for some constructive criticism.

“If it were _important,_ those'd be the last people I'd want in my damn cabin!”

The music track switches. Peter drums against the door panel, effortlessly shifting to the new tempo as Kraglin curls his fingers to the beat. “That means you want me in your damn cabin, right?”

Yondu grits his teeth. He grabs a fistful of mohawk, gives it – and the attached man – a shake, and mouths _quit it._

“No,” he growls. “No it don't. Now scat, kid. We're busy.”

“Please!” He can hear Peter hopping about. It won't be long before he decides the penalty for breaking Yondu's order (a cuff round the ear, a snarl, a stint on bog-cleaning duty) outweighs his desire to barge on in. “I can't go back to Bridge. They'll eat me! I'll sit in the corner and be quiet. You won't even know I'm here, I promise!”

“You heard him, cap,” Kraglin wheezes. His eyes water from the sting in his scalp, but his smirk has yet to leave his weaselly face. “Let the kid in.”

Yondu blinks at him. “Thas gross.”

“So gross he might never bug us again?”

Kraglin, as always, makes an excellent point. But Yondu's already single-handedly responsible for most of the trauma accrued thus far in Peter Quill's short life. He ain't gonna add to that list. Not if he don't have to.

“Sit there an' keep shtum for fifteen minutes,” he orders, rocking his pelvis to encourage Kraglin into moving again. “Then I might reconsider.”

The fist round his cock squeezes, and Kraglin sweetens the deal with a thumb on his hole, dabbling in and out of the plush blue pucker. Them's some damn good tingles. Yondu'd tell him so, if Peter wasn't sulking not six feet away.

He makes do with reaching for Kraglin's own dick, squirming into a more comfortable position where they can work each other over without popping any internal organs or kneeing any noses.

Peter's actually pretty good at shutting up when it'll get him something. Yondu's learned that if he wants the brat to be of any use on stealth missions, he needs a bribe to keep the kid's interest. Right now, the bribe is a safe place to sleep. Yondu reckons that's good motivation.

He palms Kraglin's knot, mimicking the lock of his body round it best he can. Then, once he's got him jerking and groaning, moves to flick his sticky cockhead, thumbing over the lip of the glans and circling the tip, digging his nail lightly against his urethra. 

Kraglin's thumb skids inside him almost by accident. That pressure, combined with Kraglin's ugly slack-jawed o-face (and the uncoordinated jerks as he does his best to return the favor while his orgasm's gushing out of him, taking what looks to be his entire body-volume of fluids with it) makes it impossible _not_ to cum.

Yondu's still sniggering as the jizz on his belly cools. Kraglin slides his thumb out, slow as he can, and presses an apologetic kiss to Yondu's stubble when he winces.

“What you laughin' at, sir?”

“Your dumb mug.” Yondu taps his lips, puckering up like he means to whistle. “C'mon then, boy. Put it here.”

Kraglin does so, eagerly. He's got jizz everywhere. That ain't so unusual – idiot cums like a firehose.

Without Yondu's ass keeping it stimulated, his knot wanes fast, losing its eggplant complexion. They're both smelly, sweaty, sticky with seed – but they're Ravagers, so neither of them care.

The kiss is stale yet somehow sweet, metal teeth chiming as they click. Yondu rolls 'em sideways so they can rest face-to-face, skin-to-skin, limp cocks tacking to each other's thighs.

“You done good,” he says, because that's an important thing to tell Kraglin when there ain't no one around to hear.

But perhaps they've both forgotten the need for volume control, in all the excitement. Because next moment, Peter's joins them in that little sex-reeking slice of the universe they've claimed for their own:

“Y'know, boss? If you were boning Kraglin, all you had to do was say.”

Yondu freezes.

Kraglin doesn't, mouth questing for Yondu's own – but a wrench of his mohawk sets him straight.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Quill's tone borders jubilant. “It's cool, that's all I mean. You don't gotta make up no dumb excuses. 'Strategy meeting', honestly. It's like you think I'm stupid. Just say 'I'm screwing Kraglin, I'll be done in fifteen'. Then I'll find somewhere else to hide so I don't have to listen to you idiots trying to keep quiet.”

“You – what? I'm – I ain't – I ain't screwin' nobody!”

Yondu doesn't need to see Peter's grin – he can imagine it, clear as the spill of light through his porthole from the star they're orbiting while they lay in wait of prey.

“He screwing you then, boss?”

“As often as he lets me,” comes Kraglin's jaunty reply.

Yondu punches him. Lightly. Ish. There's bigger fish here that need frying, and Yondu's got his skillet hot and ready.

“How _the fuck_ d'you know about fuckin'?” he demands. “Who told you? Who do I gotta kill?”

He can feel the arrow, even deactivated, a tsunami in his head that pulses out from the implant. If anyone on this ship has so much as _touched_ his boy...

“Unlimited access to the Nova infoweb,” says Peter. He clicks off his Walkman and keeps booting at Yondu's door, keeping the rhythm. “Space pirates don't do parental controls, right? I've watched a helluva lot of porn.”

Yondu... Yondu should probably do something about that.

But right now, all he wants is to drag Kraglin's scrawny arms round him, go to sleep, and forget this ever happened.

“Come in,” he growls, tugging the blanket to their chests. “Not one word about anything. Or -”

“I'm on the menu,” Peter singsongs, slapping open the biolock. He recoils immediately. “Ugh. That stinks!”

Whoops. Kinda hard to notice the fug when you're lying in it. Yondu claps for the extractors to start whirring, and settles back on his nest with a groan.

“Kid, you sleep in the corner. Want a pillow?”

“Not if it's got any of your spunk on it.”

“Flarkin' hell boy. What'd I say about not talkin'?”

“You asked me a question!”

Yondu supposes he can allow that one. Peter pinches his nostrils shut with one hand. He trudges to his allotted corner and steals Yondu's coat for a blanket.

Yondu shoots him a warning glare and a reminder that any missing credit chits will be paid for in hard labor – before Kraglin cuddles up to his back and kisses the wrinkle where his implant sinks into his nape. That disarms the next threats before they can make the trek from brain to mouth.

Kraglin's bony knees gouge the back of Yondu's, and his breath leaves an unpleasant moist patch on his spine. But Yondu can't think of anywhere he'd rather be than here: his man in his bed and his boy close besides, and his ship gurgling through the final stages of her orbit, thrusters at the ready to spit her into space.

Perhaps, in a perfect world, the sheets'd be less damp. But this galaxy ain't perfect.

That's a truth Yondu's been coming to terms with for a long time – ever since  mama and papa collared a screaming toddler and tossed him to the Kree.

Parents sell their children. Planets _murder_ their children. Titans eat planets, and if that ain't the sign of a fucked-up, godless universe, Yondu don't know what is.

But he's alive, and Kraglin's warm, and Peter has yet to be made into stew by the hungry Ravager denizens. In Yondu's humble opinion, unless an unarmed bank-ship drifts across their path, life can't get much better.

**Author's Note:**

> **If that last line ("But at least he [Yondu] is alive!!!") hurts too much, head to @ask-a-ravager on tumblr - I'm fixing things over there. Also, expect a 20 500 + word fix it fic soon. I finished it last night and it needs an edit, but it's looking pretty good! If you like Peter cockblocking his dad (and his strange sort-of uncle), read _The Ravager's Guide to Getting Laid_ (also by yours truly). You'll have to dig back to the first page of my archive, but I promise you won't regret it!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
> ****  
> **If you read it, leave a comment on it?**  
> 


End file.
